


Rough like the bark of a tree

by dramady



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV), Walking Dead (comic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramady/pseuds/dramady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  It's the small things, small like M&Ms and a touch.</p><p>Author's Notes: slightly AU-ish - Daryl and Michonne are on their own. Co-written with PROPERNICE</p><p>Disclaimer: These characters belong to Robert Kirkman. No profit is made nor sought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough like the bark of a tree

The walkers came up when they were skinning the squirrels. The rustle of the leaves was the give away and they'd both turned, weapons up.

One, two, then there were five.

Then there were five with holes in their heads if those heads were even attached.

Without a thought, Daryl goes to get the arrows back, wiping the shit off them before reholstering them. Michonne is a few paces away and he looks her over for signs of injury, then just because.

Even now, after months of this, there’s something about knowing they got past a group of the dead that gives Michonne some kind of adrenaline rush. She’s not cocky enough to assume she’ll come out of it alive every time, but when she does it’s the realization that she put the bastards down that gives her a thrill.

Sword still dripping, she looks back at Daryl, appraising him as well. They’ve been coming out together for a while now, able to work together in near silence. Stepping closer to him, she wipes her sword, eyes flicking back up to his as her heart pounds in her chest.

“You okay?”

He gives her a curt nod, eyes still moving to scan the periphery making sure that they got them all. A moment and he looks at her; she looks all right. She looks more than all right, but only the color on the back of his neck gives that away.

She sees it, notices the color, and she steps closer, emboldened by the fact that they’re alive. Her mouth finds his, urgent and nearly bruising, kitana dropping at her side as she pulls him closer by one hand.

There's a sound, somewhere between a snarl and a growl, that gets lost in the press of their mouths. Already, Daryl's reaching for the hem of her shirt, pulling it up, away and tossing it to the ground, hands seeking her breasts, squeezing and kneading them without thought to grace, just need.

Hands moving to the zipper of his jeans, Michonne pulls it down, then tugs the jeans down and away, even as she backs up to a tree, back pressing against the bark. Her tongue strokes over his, teeth tug at his bottom lip, and she makes a sound in the back of her throat of pure lust and want. A need to feel.

There's some pulling, some navigating, some lifting, Daryl's hips rocking forward, then he groans, low, against her mouth. Short thrusts at first; she's tight. He's got a hand on her hip, the other still on a breast.

Michonne’s being as quiet as she can, but she grunts against him, one leg high around him as he moves into her. Shit, he feels good, and she just wants this one escape for right now. She urges him to move harder after a few minutes, one hand on the back of his neck, holding tight.

Daryl pulls back from the kiss, meeting her gaze head-on for a moment before he lets his head fall to the crux of her neck. He's already panting, grip on her leg tightening the faster his thrusts get.

Fingers raking through his hair, tugging, are rough and somehow soothing after, as her body meets his every time. Finally, though, she can’t help a low moan as her entire body tenses, muscles tight around him as she tries to pull him deeper. Her back has been rubbing against the rough bark but she hardly feels it as she comes, hips meeting his in short and sporadic jerks.

"Fuck," he breathes out. Only a minute more and he's coming too. He goes still, holding her against the tree. Then he lets her down, careful of her back, already pulling his pants back up.

Not being the sentimental type, Michonne bends for her shirt, putting it on gingerly over tender skin before fixing her pants. Then she picks her sword up, hood going up on her jacket. “Ready?” she asks, glancing over at him, coming to stand beside him.

Chewing on his lower lip, Daryl nods. He's got to get the squirrels again; they're a little dirty but nothing that cooking them can't fix.

But back at the camp, the squirrels on to roast, he comes up behind her without warning and lifts her shirt, checking at the scratches.

Michonne hisses at the fabric moving, tensing and letting out a breath. But she stands still for him. She can feel the welting, beads of blood dry on her skin, and she bends her head a bit so he can see.

There are band-aids and Neosporin fetched from his saddlebags. Then Daryl covers the deepest cuts. "Gotta stay away from trees," he says, pulling her shirt down. There's a ghost of a smile as he turns away.

Looking at him once her shirt is down, she faintly smiles. “Didn’t think I was complaining too loudly.” She can still feel him, taste him, and she has to look away, moving under the pretense of checking their food. “We need more water soon,” she says, glancing at their two sixteen ounce water bottles, one half full.

"Can last 'til tomorrow." Move when it's light. He stores the supplies back in his saddlebags before coming back to the fire to turn the meat.

Sitting back, Michonne watches him, the way his arms move, how intent his eyes are. She lets out a breath, then just closes her eyes as she relaxes, yet still listens intently to the woods around them.

Weird how they get along. Not that Daryl's thought a lot about it. It just is; he can trust her to have his back.

When the squirrel bones are scattered on the fire, Daryl's lying back too, as relaxed as he gets, sharpening his arrowheads.

The darker it gets, the closer to Daryl she moves. And she watches him until she falls asleep, shoulder against his thigh. When she wakes up at first sunlight, she stretches out, finding herself against his side. She goes still, opening her eyes and looking at him, not wanting to move suddenly and wake him up before he has to.

They both sleep lightly; when she wakes up, he does too, even if he keeps his eyes closed for a while before looking up at the treetops. Water. But he turns his head first, meeting her gaze for a moment before looking away. "How's your back?"

Sitting back, Michonne rubs her face. “It’s alright. Worth it,” she says with a small smile before standing. Picking up her machete, she heads off to take care of business, maybe find some berries and bird eggs.

When she comes up, it’s with a rabbit from a snare instead of eggs. “No eggs. Probably a few weeks yet.”

"Nice." He pulls his knife from his pocket and tosses it her way to skin it. "Get us some greens on the way back." Maybe some herbs, make some soup. Once she skins the rabbit, they'll go for water.

Michonne goes to work getting the skin off. “We’re close to a neighborhood. Pantry raiding time,” she says, eyebrows raised. “Maybe find some good canned food.”

Maybe. Daryl starts on packing up for the walk, backpack, water, weapons. He used to live on pot pies and beer. He can't remember, now, what they tasted like. "Save the skin." They can use it for something.

She nods, then strings the rabbit up next to their squirrels. “We going out now, or you wanna eat first?” She watches blood drip from the rabbit to the ground, then looks at Daryl, waiting for his answer.

"Now, be back by noon," he told her. He has some jerky in his bag, anyway. He nods toward the road and the neighborhood beyond.

They make it to the neighborhood in good time, and it’s weird. A ghost town. Everything frozen in time. Kid’s bikes in the front yard, car doors left hanging open. She picks a house at random and goes in with him. There’s a family, laid out in the living room - two kids, the parents. Dad obviously went last, the wife has a bite on her arm. “Shit.”

They're long gone enough that the smell is gone; that's a relief. Daryl stares for a minute before moving past to the kitchen, throwing cabinets open.

There's not much. He crouches down to find some cans in the back: pears and stewed tomatoes. He stuffed them in his pack.

Michonne goes through one of the closets in the main bedroom and finds a few good short sleeved shirts, then raids the bathroom, grabbing toilet paper, tampons, and all the medicine there is. “Next house?”

The next door house is a single story ranch that's empty, the front door broken open. Daryl leads the way in, crossbow up. He searches all the rooms before calling "clear."

This time she raids the pantry, hitting jackpot with instant mashed potatoes they can cook with water, tuna fish, spam (debatable on if that’s a win), and ramen noodles. There’s even a couple boxes of granola. She finds a package of M&Ms, wonders if they have expiration dates, then hides them in a pocket. Saving them for later. For Daryl. She doesn’t think about it, just does it, to give him a second to be pleased after all of this.

Their packs are loaded down, water bottles full and Daryl's stomach is growling when they get back to camp. He starts the rabbit roasting and watches Michonne with the supplies. "End 'a the world and somebody thinks it's good to have fuckin' ramen." If he ever gets a pantry again, he'll never fucking eat ramen. Ever.

She laughs, just a little. But she sorts it all, dividing it out so it’s not too heavy in one bag for one person. “Different flavors in here. Creamy chicken, roasted chicken, shrimp. Cheapest survival tactic ever. And hey.” She waves the can of spam at him.

Up go his eyebrows. Spam. Though, he knows from experience that it's not bad roasted; he'd steal a can from the store as a kid and take it when he'd run away, eating it off a stick. "Hog heaven, right there."

Michonne finishes up and sits next to him, and when the rabbit is done, she shares comfortably with him, passing a water bottle back and forth. Then, after a few minutes of silence, she pulls the candy out of her pocket and passes it to him wordlessly.

For a minute he doesn't touch it, just looking at the bag on his knee and has to swallow because his mouth is watering. He turns over the rabbit and looks at Michonne sidelong. Even after all this time, he wonders if it's a trick.

If he asked her, Michonne would look at him like he was crazy - she’s not sure what she’d have to gain by tricking him. “Open them. Or save them. I don’t even know if you like peanut M&Ms, I just figured...when are we going to get a chance to just enjoy again?”

Shit. Daryl checks the rabbit first, making sure it won't burn. Then he rips open the bag and sniffs it.

Smells okay. Then he shakes a few into the palm of his hand, so they can just look at them, the fake, bright colors, the little white M on each piece.

For a second, he wants to throw them away, toss them away as if they're a threat.

But Daryl nudges Michonne's arm with his elbow, for her to take one first.

Reaching out, she takes a round piece of candy, turning it over in her fingers slowly before putting it into her mouth, chewing slow, trying to savor. “Shit. That’s good,” she says, shaking her head.

Watching her chew is like watching something intimate. Daryl has to look away. He's slow to put one in his mouth.

The sweetness explodes on his tongue and he nearly chokes.

He would've been right to toss them away. When these are gone, they're all gone.

Michonne takes another, this time biting it in half, trying to make it last longer. “I never stop to think that everything’s over. Not really. But it is. Everything’s over. I have you, and half the time I don’t know if you really want me around.” She’s not hurt, the point of her words isn’t to inflict guilt. It’s just an observation.

"Could be worse." 

It's the closest Daryl can get to telling her he's glad she's here with him.

“Glad you think so,” she says before eating the other half of the candy. She’s not even sure she wants anymore. “Maybe save the rest. Or...I don’t know. Just don’t wanna eat them all now.”

With that, Daryl rolls up the bag tight as he can and stuffs it in his pocket and he goes back to tending the rabbit. When he leans forward, he bumps her arm again with his shoulder. She can take it however she wants.

She takes it for some sort of begrudging affection, and idly, as he works, her fingers move over his shoulder before she stands, with an eye on the sky at a very low rumble of thunder. “Sounds pretty far out.”

"Could go back to one of them houses for the night," he offers, cutting into the rabbit to check it.

The idea of it both appeals to and bothers her. “Lot of work for one storm, taking all of this stuff back, making sure we get a secure place...” she looks at him, waiting for him to weigh in.

"Then we get wet." Daryl doesn't much care. Water won't hurt them. He carves out a piece of rabbit and spears it, holding it out for her. "Got that salt from the house. Pepper too."

If he’s alright with it, she is too, and she takes a piece, grabbing that salt and pepper he mentioned. She uses it sparingly, but it’s just enough. “One day, we should grab spices. We could spice anything up with a little garlic powder. Rosemary or something.”

"Okay, Julia Child." All Daryl's ever needed is salt; it works for him. He carves off another piece and eats it himself, comfortable in the moment.

And when the rain comes, they sit under the tarp. And somehow - Daryl never thinks much about how - Michonne ends up under him. He moves slowly, face buried in her neck.

Michonne’s hands move to the back of his neck, fingers raking through his hair. She says his name quietly, matching his pace, dragging his head up so that she can kiss him, pressing up just enough that he’s sitting and she’s in his lap, moving slow.

His hands frame her back, keeping her close. He pulls her forward, his face pressed right under her collarbone, his breathing panted against her skin.

When she can’t stand the slow pace anymore, she speeds up, head falling back against her shoulders when she lets go, hands holding onto him, hips moving in no particular rhythm as she comes apart, gasping and trying to keep it quiet.

Growling low, under his breath, Daryl pulls her down on his dick, moving her until he comes too, but then he goes still, arms tight around her waist, face buried in her shoulder. Soon, the only sound they hear are the raindrops on the tent.

Usually Michonne moves away, or he does, as soon as they’re done. But this time she holds on, her head falling to his shoulder as she catches her breath. Her mouth drags across his collarbone, affectionate for the first time, really. And the she moves, not wanting the gesture to make him close up and _push_ her away. Lying back, she closes her eyes, listening to the storm, at the thunder that’s loud and right over head.

They lie there a minute longer before Daryl reaches for his pants. He taps out two more M&Ms and one is set right between her breasts. He smirks as he chews on his, the package going back into his pants pocket.

Michonne can’t help but smile a little. “You could always come and get that one,” she says, voice low before she plays with it, rolls it across her chest slowly.

He doesn't look over at her in the moment and in the dark, it's hard to tell if he smiles or not. But another minute passes and he does go after it, hot mouth on her skin.


End file.
